Chapter Eighteen
When Joss Harvey took Matthew from the house it seemed to Kate like a bizarre rerun of the day the police escorted her father from the house. True, this time the force wasn’t the legal force of the law, but Kate felt as if it was. From the moment Harriet had given it as her opinion that, while the heavy bombing on London continued, Toby would have wanted Matthew removed to the countryside in the care of his great-grandfather, she had known she had no option.
‘It’s a disgrace, of course, that Mr Harvey is not offering to evacuate you as well,’ Harriet had said, privately thinking it deeply shocking, ‘but if he had, I can’t imagine he would have agreed to you taking Hector with you and you couldn’t possibly have taken Daisy.’
On hearing her name, the little girl standing beside Kate had taken hold of her hand. Kate had given it a comforting squeeze. Even though Daisy had only been with her a couple of weeks she certainly wouldn’t have wanted her to have been handed back to the authorities and put into an orphanage. And Matthew would be well cared for. In a surprising act of courtesy Joss Harvey had introduced her to the young woman he had engaged as a nanny.
Ruth Fairbairn was only a year or two older than Kate and there had been instant, unspoken empathy between them. Sensing Kate’s anguish, she had given her a reprieve of another two weeks by saying to Joss Harvey, ‘I can’t accept responsibility for Matthew until he’s been weaned from breast milk to dried milk, Mr Harvey. It would cause all sorts of emotional and digestive complications.’
Just as when the policeman had escorted her father from the house and into internment, a large number of her neighbours were out in force to witness the event and gossip about it amongst themselves. The car, itself, had been an object of great speculation.
‘I thought King George had come visiting,’ Hettie Collins said, her coat buttoned tightly to the throat, her battered black straw hat rakishly decorated with a bunch of imitation cherries.
‘More likely old Hitler,’ some wit replied, mindful of Kate’s surname.
‘Blimey, ’e’s not the father, is ’e?’ a joker asked.
‘Don’t be daft! The old git coming down the steps must be the father.’
As Joss Harvey’s white-haired, portly figure descended the steps to the pathway, followed by Ruth Fairbairn in her distinctive nanny’s uniform, Miriam Jennings said knowledgeably, ‘That’s old man ’arvey of ’arvey Construction Ltd and he ain’t the father, he’s the great-grandad. Kate was keepin’ company with ’is grandson.’
‘The one wot was killed at Dunkirk?’ her questioner asked, impressed. ‘Is ’e the father then? I thought someone said it was a darky baby. She ’ad a darky livin’ with ’er. I know ’cos Nibbo told me.’
Kate was only a few steps behind Matthew’s nanny, Matthew in her arms, and she heard all the comments clearly. They didn’t surprise her. In the months since Matthew’s birth she had overheard lots of similar remarks.
Joss Harvey’s chauffeur was standing beside the car, holding the nearside rear door open. As Ruth reached him she turned to take Matthew from Kate’s arms.
‘I’ll take very great care of Matthew, Miss Voigt,’ she promised, her eyes compassionate.
Kate nodded, unable to speak. This was it. This was the moment she had dreaded. This was the moment when she had to hand her son into the care of a near stranger. He was sleeping and she resisted the almost overpowering temptation to wake him in order to see him smile and gurgle up at her one last time before parting with him. Very tenderly she kissed him on his forehead. ‘Goodbye, my precious,’ she whispered softly, tears glittering on her eyelashes. ‘It won’t be for long, I promise.’
Then, feeling as if her heart was going to break, she laid him in Ruth Fairbairn’s arms. Ruth stepped into the car. With dreadful finality the chauffeur closed the door.
‘Six weeks,’ Joss Harvey said to her as the chauffeur opened the front passenger-seat door for him. ‘I’ll send you a train ticket in six weeks, and every six weeks after that, so that you can visit him.’
‘I shall bring Daisy with me,’ she said thickly, knowing that Joss Harvey hadn’t given Daisy a thought.
Joss Harvey opened his mouth to say she would do no such thing and then became aware of their unwanted audience. Curtly he nodded unwilling acquiescence and stepped into the car.
Small footsteps hurtled down the pathway behind Kate. Daisy had been told to stay in the house with Harriet and Hector until Kate returned but she had been terrified that Kate might never return. Now she tugged at Kate’s hand, saying in distress, ‘Why have you given the baby to that lady, Auntie Kate? Where is that man taking them?’
Kate slipped her arm around Daisy’s shoulders. ‘It’s all right, Daisy,’ she said, fighting back tears, determined not to give way to them in public. ‘We’ll see Matthew again soon, I promise.’
The chauffeur opened the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel, closing the door after him. Through the Bentley’s back window Kate could see Matthew’s little fingers stretching and then clenching into tiny fists.
‘Please don’t wake!’ she said to herself fearfully. ‘Please don’t wake and start to cry! I couldn’t bear it!’
Ruth Fairbairn adjusted his white lacy shawl slightly, and began to rock him. The chauffeur turned the ignition and put his foot down on the clutch. Seconds later the Bentley was pulling away from the curb, heading out of Magnolia Square towards Magnolia Hill and Lewisham.
‘Her dad may be a Jerry but you’ve got to feel sorry for her,’ the woman standing next to Hettie said as Kate turned abruptly on her heel and, holding Daisy by the hand, walked swiftly back up her garden path. ‘I wouldn’t want to have been separated from my little nipper when he was so small.’
‘And she can’t be all bad if she’s taking the little girl in,’ someone else said charitably. ‘And the kiddie’s happy with her, that’s obvious.’
This time Kate didn’t hear a word of the remarks being made about her. All she wanted was privacy in which to give vent to her crucifying sense of loss.
The next few weeks would have been unbearable if it hadn’t been for Daisy and Hector’s companionship and the letters she received from her father and from Leon. Her father, as always, encouraged her to look on the bright side.
At least you have the comfort of knowing that Matthew is in a safe part of the country and that he is being well-cared for, Liebling, he wrote at the beginning of April. Thousands of mothers whose children have been evacuated by the government can only hope for the best where the welfare of their children is concerned . . .
Kate remembered Billy and Beryl’s dreadful experience and was suitably grateful. At least Joss Harvey had had the courtesy to introduce her to Matthew’s nanny and she knew that Ruth Fairbairn would be caring and diligent. If she wasn’t, Joss Harvey would sack her on the spot.
Leon’s letter she read over and over again. His ship was no longer in the Mediterranean but had been detailed to Atlantic convoy duties. Which of the three main convoy routes between Britain and Canada his ship was sailing he didn’t say and, familiar with the censorship even her father’s letters suffered from, she knew she couldn’t expect such information. It was public knowledge, however, that one of the routes from Scotland to Canada went via Iceland. She thought of the harsh North Atlantic seas and the German U-boats that infested them and shivered with apprehension. Give Matthew a cuddle for me, he had written in large, clear handwriting. I miss you. I even miss Hector!
She had smiled and then her smile had faded. She had been hoping for something far more personal. There was a restraint in his letter that unnerved her. Had he begun to feel embarrassed at having tended her so intimately when Matthew was born? Had she been foolish in thinking there could ever be anything more than friendship between them? Certainly she couldn’t now write back to him in the manner she longed to do. She couldn’t tell him she loved him. She couldn’t tell him she was looking forward to him returning to Magnolia Square just as fiercely
as she was looking forward to Matthew’s return.
Daisy kept her from brooding. She was a sunny-natured little girl and her resilience in recovering from the loss of her parents and grandparents led Kate to believe that the home she had lost had not been a happy home. The canary that had accompanied her when Harriet had first brought her to the house held pride of place in his cage in the living-room, much to Hector’s agitation. Because of Daisy, Kate found herself baking gingerbread men, with raisins for eyes, and reading nursery rhymes and bedtime stories.
Billy, who had inbuilt radar where home-baking was concerned, soon began calling in for a gingerbread man, bringing Beryl with him.
Beryl was now five and going to school with Jenny, the little girl who had also lost her family in a bombing raid and who had become part and parcel of the Jennings’ family.
‘Will you read me a story as well?’ she asked shyly one evening as Kate was putting Daisy to bed.
Kate had willingly obliged and Beryl had sat on her knee, a mug of cocoa in her hand, as Kate began to read to her from her own much-loved copy of J M Barrie’s Peter Pan.
At the end of the month she had another, far different, visitor.
‘I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d call,’ Lance Merton said as he stood on her doorstep, resplendent in his uniform, looking down at her from his rangy six-foot-two-inches.
‘I’m glad you did,’ she said, surprised and pleased. ‘Have you time for a cup of tea?’
He nodded and she led the way along the hallway to the kitchen, the days when she had been too conscious of the gossip such a visitor would arouse long gone. Ever since Joss Harvey had so ostentatiously taken Matthew away, Matthew’s father’s identity had been common knowledge. No-one would now imagine Lance Merton was the father of her child and if they thought his visit indicated promiscuousness on her part, then it was just too bad. She didn’t give a damn any more what people thought about her and she hadn’t ever since she had realized she was in love with Leon.
‘I see you’re a Group Captain now,’ she said, noting his signal flashes.
‘For my sins,’ he said wryly as Hector bounded welcomingly up to him. His eyes widened as he saw Daisy, standing on a stool in order to be able to reach the baking board, playing with left-over gingerbread mixture.
‘This is Daisy,’ Kate said, seeing his bewilderment and being amused by it.
Daisy turned towards him, surveying him critically, a dusting of flour on her nose. ‘Hello,’ she said, a slight frown creasing her forehead. ‘Have you brought our baby back?’
Realizing that Daisy had confused Lance Merton’s RAF uniform with the uniform Joss Harvey’s chauffeur wore, Kate said gently, ‘Our baby isn’t coming home just yet, Daisy. We’re going on a train ride to visit him next weekend.’
Mollified and losing immediate interest in their visitor, Daisy returned her attention to her gingerbread mixture, squeezing and patting it and enjoying the sensation as it squelched between her fingers.
Remembering that Lance Merton knew nothing about Matthew and thinking that he would be bewildered, Kate said, ‘I was pregnant when Toby was killed. I had a little boy.’
‘I know,’ he said, not asking where Matthew was and looking slightly uncomfortable. ‘Mr Harvey told me.’
Kate’s eyebrows rose slightly. Wondering what else Joss Harvey had told Lance Merton about her and wondering also what Lance’s motives were for calling on her, she turned on the tap, filling the kettle.
Had Lance called to see her again because he was attracted to her? If such a possibility had occurred to her the last time he had called on her, when she had still been so devastated by Toby’s death, she would have been outraged. It was evidence of how far she had travelled in coming to terms with that grief that she now felt nothing approaching outrage. It was Leon, of course, who had achieved what she had once thought impossible and eased her grief. Though Toby would always hold a place in her heart, and though she would always remember him, she would never again do so feeling that part of her had been wrenched away and the scar left wincing with the cold.
‘Is Daisy your niece?’ Lance asked curiously.
‘No.’ Kate put the kettle on the hob. ‘She was bombed out of her home a couple of months ago and has been with me ever since.’
Lance looked relieved and with a flash of amusement Kate wondered if he had thought that Toby’s child wasn’t her first illegitimate child.
‘And the baby?’ Lance asked. ‘What did you call him?’
A deep smile curved her mouth. ‘Matthew Tobias Leon Carl.’
‘Carl?’ He looked startled. ‘That’s very German . . .’
The joy went out of her smile and her stomach muscles tightened. ‘Carl is my father’s name,’ she said, crossing to the kitchen-dresser and taking down two cups and two saucers.
‘I see,’ he said, still looking troubled. ‘I can understand you wanting to name the baby after your father, but wouldn’t it make sense if your father changed his name? Especially his surname. There’s no need to go through life handicapped by having a German name. You could quite easily have Voigt changed to Verity or Vincent.’
She took a deep, steadying breath. He wasn’t meaning to be offensive. Lots of people would think his suggestion eminently sensible. It was what the Royal family had done during the First World War and what lots of other families of German descent had done.
She put a milk jug and sugar bowl on the table, knowing that she could never explain to him the complexity of her feelings where her father’s nationality was concerned. Instead, changing the subject, she said chattily, ‘Are you still stationed at Hornchurch?’
He shook his head. He had taken his RAF cap off and his hair was short and straight and almost as blond as Toby’s had been. ‘No, I’m at Debden. It’s still reasonably near to London, thank God.’
She wondered if the gratitude was because London was where his family were or if it was London’s nightlife he was grateful for.
As if reading her thoughts, he said, ‘I’m a veteran now where piloting fighters is concerned. There’s not many of us left from pre-Dunkirk days.’
Kate’s heart went out to him. He had been a wartime pilot for over a year. A year of dicing with death nearly every minute he was airborne; a year of seeing friends taxi off the runway with him and never return; a year of living constantly on his nerves. No wonder he was tense and no wonder he took advantage of London’s nightlife every opportunity he got.
As she put the teapot on the table, he said tentatively, ‘I don’t have to be back at Debden until tomorrow night. I’d thought of going to the West End tonight. Having a meal and a spot of dancing, that sort of thing. Would you come with me?’
‘I . . .’ Kate sought for words in which to say no without hurting his feelings. He had been Toby’s friend and he had given her Hector and she didn’t want to seem to be giving him the brush-off. Neither, however, did she want to go wining and dining with him in the West End. To be once again in such close proximity to an RAF uniform would bring back heartaching memories of Toby. And if Lance were attracted to her, she didn’t want to encourage him. Her own heart had already been given elsewhere.
‘I can’t,’ she said, pouring tea and avoiding his eyes. ‘I’ve never left Daisy with a babysitter. I don’t even know of anyone who would babysit for me.’
He looked startled and she realized that mundane necessities such as baby-sitting had never occurred to him. She also realized that he had not, as yet, asked her where Matthew was.
‘Surely a neighbour . . .’
She shook her head. ‘The one neighbour who would babysit for me is on night duty as a volunteer ambulance-woman. Would you like a biscuit with your tea? I have some home-made ginger biscuits.’
He took a ginger biscuit from the tin she proffered him and then said, ‘What about tomorrow, through the day? We could drive down to Brighton with a picnic. I’m sure Hector and Doris would enjoy that.’
‘Her name is
Daisy, not Doris,’ Kate corrected, in a quandary.
Daisy had heard the word ‘picnic’ and was looking towards her, round-eyed. Even Hector was looking hopeful.
‘It would do me the world of good,’ Lance said frankly. ‘I need to be able to forget about the war for a few hours and a joy-ride to the coast would be just the trick.’
Under the circumstances it was a small enough request and looking at his drawn face Kate didn’t see how she could possibly refuse.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said, wishing his public-school accent wasn’t so like Toby’s; knowing that every minute they were in the car together, his uniformed arm brushing hers, she would be thinking of the times she and Toby had driven out into the countryside blissfully happy and carefree and with no intimation of how little time they had left together.
‘Are we really going on a picnic, Auntie Kate?’ Daisy was asking, stepping down from her stool, a toy rolling-pin held in her chubby hand. ‘A proper picnic with sandwiches and cake and lemonade?’
Kate nodded, scooping her up on to her knee. Though it was still only late April and not yet sun-bathing weather, Daisy would enjoy playing on the beach at Brighton. Or she would if the beach hadn’t been barbed-wired to deter German troops from landing on it.
There was barbed-wire, but not all the way along the beach. They picnicked with their backs resting against a recently erected pillbox and Daisy paddled and Hector raced over the sand at the tide-line until he was exhausted.
‘I think I’ve done it,’ Lance said, raising his face to the weak sun as seagulls circled above them, ‘I think I’ve managed to forget about the war.’
She smiled, knowing he didn’t mean it for a moment. The war was impossible to forget. Where ice-cream huts once stood, observation posts now stood. Instead of deck-chair repositories there were concrete bunkers. And Toby was dead and Leon was somewhere in the vast Atlantic, his ship prey to German U-boats and battleships.
The Londoners Page 33
